Time for the Dead Read online

  Blaze, thinking they must be making for the forest path, set off that way until Rhona called him back. Quickly registering her intention to climb towards the trig point instead, the dog swiftly took the lead.

  Before she got into her stride, Rhona pulled out her mobile and texted Chrissy to say she was out for a walk with Blaze and would see her later. Then she turned off her phone, although judging by the diminishing signal, she was heading out of range anyway.

  Within sight of the trig point, she stopped and turned. Up here, close to the hilltop, the ground cover was grass and heather, with the line of the plantation some yards below. On escaping the forest with Alvis, she’d chosen a large rock jutting out of the heather as a marker for their exit point.

  And there it was.

  From where she stood, there was no visible sign of a break in the trees, but, trusting to memory, she headed for the landmark anyway. The dog, who had waited patiently while she decided her route, now took off, to swiftly disappear among the trees.

  Drawing closer, Rhona spotted the route the dog had taken.

  A sudden flashback of that smothering green prison brought the same taste to her mouth as before. Rhona coughed and, spitting out her fear, replaced it with a deep breath, then marshalled herself to enter. Recall told her it was a ten-minute walk to the girl’s camp in the clearing. I can manage that if I move swiftly and focus only on the path.

  At this point, Blaze came running back as though he had sensed or scented her rising anxiety.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rhona said, ruffling his head in relief.

  Blaze gave a little whine and, staying in front of her on the narrow track, checked back periodically to make sure she was still with him. Minutes later they were through and stepping into the clearing that held the campground.

  The tent, Rhona was relieved to see, was still there, zipped up, and she now registered why the location had been chosen in the first place. It was certainly secluded, given that the few walkers making for the trig point would use the clearly marked path that led up directly from the turning circle.

  It was sheltered, the cold wind that had harassed her as she’d climbed unnoticeable here. To the east was a small stream for fresh water. A place had been marked out for cooking, but there was no evidence of a fire having been lit, so presumably Seven had been using a gas stove.

  One thing she hadn’t noted on her first visit, focused as she had been on the girl, were the probable marks of other tents, at least three of them. Suggesting the likelihood that the others had also camped at that spot at some time.

  As she took this in, Blaze remained beside her, apparently awaiting instructions, his lack of agitation suggesting the girl wasn’t in the vicinity. Rhona tried anyway.

  Her call of ‘Seven, are you there?’ brought forth a couple of startled ravens to rise from the treetops, cawing their escape, but no human response.

  As her second attempt faded and died, Rhona approached the tent.

  Entering would be an intrusion, but one she deemed necessary. The dog too had begun snuffling and whining, pawing the ground at the entrance. If Blaze was interested in what was in there, then she should be too, Rhona told herself as she reached for the zip.

  41

  Ordering the dog to stay, Rhona unzipped the tent flap and crawled inside.

  In here the dimness of the winter light was exacerbated, and she put on her torch to view the contents more clearly. A winter sleeping bag was rolled at the back, with a few items of clothing folded nearby including a pair of trainers, with a single soiled anklet sock lying next to them. Hanging above all this was a drawstring bag.

  There were kitchen utensils stacked together with a small gas stove, plus a pile of what looked like British Army ration packs. Checking out the menu, it appeared Seven had no intention of going hungry.

  There was, however, no backpack, first-aid kit, outer garments or walking boots, so it was safe to assume that Seven was out walking somewhere, and intended to come back here to sleep.

  Rhona eyed the drawstring bag. Made of canvas, it looked like it might also be an army issue. Curious as to its contents, she lifted it down and, loosening the cord, tipped them out. She wasn’t sure what she expected to discover – a piece of equipment most likely or maybe even toiletries.

  Instead she found a torn and stained piece of mesh-like blue cloth. A neck cord attached to a pendant fashioned from what looked like a black scorpion encased in acrylic. The lifelike quality of the three-dimensional insect was so good, Rhona found herself moving back, just in case the scorpion flickered into life. The final item was a metal tag with the name ‘Rex’ attached to a fragment of an ornamental chain. There were none of the usual army details of number, date of birth or blood type on the tag, so it wasn’t for a human.

  Were these mementos of her time in Afghanistan?

  As Rhona spread them out and took a photograph, a wave of guilt swept over her at the thought that she was rummaging through Seven’s private things. Quickly returning the items to the bag, she hung it back up, wondering if Seven would know instinctively that someone had been here and feel violated by such an intrusion.

  A feeling Rhona knew only too well.

  Keen now to be out of the tent, Rhona made a decision. She could either linger about the camp area and wait for Seven to return or she could go looking for her, and for that she might need Blaze’s help.

  Rhona lifted the discarded sock and, crawling to the open flap, offered it to Blaze to take the scent.

  ‘Go find it, boy.’

  Seven had been moving around the campsite, and this was obvious by the initial criss-crossing pattern of the dog. Rhona hoped that Blaze wouldn’t suddenly disappear into the dense depths of the plantation, where she definitely didn’t want to go.

  Thankfully, although Blaze sniffed around the area where the stream emerged from the trees, he didn’t head in. Instead he chose the path she’d used.

  Rhona gave him an encouraging ‘Good boy’, hoping that perhaps Seven was in the vicinity of the trig point. She had no idea how long and far the dog, however willing, might be able to follow the scent.

  Perhaps she was already demanding too much of the big collie. After all, he wasn’t a police dog, no matter how well trained he was.

  Blaze, despite her concerns, seemed quite clear what was expected of him. Back on that first day in the birch woods, she’d gone along with the eager dog, all the time thinking he might be leading her to a rabbit he’d killed earlier.

  She’d been wrong then, as she had been later on the clifftop.

  The sun, now properly up, had emerged from behind the thick cloud cover of earlier. Blaze, having circled the summit of Beinn a’ Ghlinne Bhig, was now heading down the grass and heather slope towards Loch Niarsco.

  Following behind him on the narrow track forged by other walkers, Rhona stopped to catch her breath and appreciate what lay before her. In the far distance was Healabhal Mhor, the southern of the two hills known as MacLeod’s Tables, which she had walked to earlier in her stay on the island.

  But not from here.

  She wondered, as the dog continued to wend his way north-eastwards, whether he was taking her for a walk, perhaps one he’d been on with Donald, and that their path had nothing to do with Seven at all.

  Soon they were skirting the lochside and Blaze, moving more swiftly ahead, came to a halt near the north end of the peaty water, very excited, it seemed. Rhona went to join him at the water’s edge, where it appeared Seven’s scent, if that was indeed what he was following, seemed stronger.

  Rhona noted the boot prints and the stone fire ring close to the water’s edge, recognizing the tell-tale signs that someone had stopped here, maybe even camped, as evidenced by a rectangle of flattened heather.

  Seven had left her tent in place in the clearing, but she could have taken an emergency shelter with her, should the weather turn bad on her walk. If she had bivouacked here, then she must have set out shortly after Rhona and Alvis had encou
ntered her in the forest.

  Had they spooked her?

  Something about the girl’s story of not being able to make contact with the others unless in an emergency hadn’t rung true. How did they alert one another if there was something wrong, if they kept their phones off all the time? Surely it was more likely they’d organized check-in times with one another?

  And, if they had been involved in the incident behind A.C.E Target Sports, the best plan would have been to leave the island before anyone found out about it.

  As Blaze had decided to go for a dip, Rhona took a moment to eat and drink something. When he came ashore minutes later, she realized he was much slimmer than his big shaggy coat suggested.

  Once he’d given himself a good shake, Blaze indicated he was ready to move on, urging Rhona to pack up and follow him. Conscious of how far she had come from the turning circle and her vehicle, Rhona began to wonder if this trip had been a wise move at all, or just another fanciful idea she’d conjured up in her present state of mind.

  Wouldn’t it have been more sensible to hang about near Seven’s campsite and talk to her when she returned?

  The dog, however, had no qualms about the original plan and was already setting a steady pace, following the line of the stream that ran along the lower edge of the plantation towards what was, according to Rhona’s map, the A850, the road that led either back to Portree or else west to Dunvegan.

  If that was where Seven was making for, it didn’t look as though she was out on a survival walk after all.

  Rhona switched on her mobile and three messages pinged in in succession, one each from Alvis, Sergeant MacDonald and Chrissy. As Rhona contemplated which one to read first, the mobile rang out.

  ‘Where are you?’ McNab said before she could even manage a hello.

  ‘Out for a walk with Donald’s dog.’

  ‘Alvis says they can’t reach you.’

  ‘The signal’s bad and you’ve reached me now.’

  ‘The DNA from your walk in the woods is not a match for the body on the beach,’ McNab declared bluntly.

  Rhona didn’t respond because there was nothing to say, except that she’d been wrong.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ McNab demanded.

  Rhona had kept on walking and the signal had weakened so that McNab’s voice had begun to break up. She could have stepped back into range, but didn’t.

  ‘Rhona? Can you hear me? The beach guy wasn’t from the woods.’

  ‘You don’t have to keep telling me that,’ Rhona muttered under her breath.

  ‘But,’ McNab’s broken voice assumed a triumphant tone, ‘I fucking know who it is.’

  42

  Glasgow, a little earlier

  McNab cursed as the line of traffic continued to merely creep forward. He was going to be late and it wasn’t strictly the fault of the current hold-up.

  Had he not succumbed to Ellie’s naked charms this morning – she’d had an afternoon shift at the Harley shop so wasn’t in a hurry – he would have reached the hospital in good time. But, opening his eyes earlier, he’d rediscovered his delight at having her beside him and had taken advantage of her offer.

  Which he didn’t regret one little bit, he told himself, as his watch reminded him he was well past the arranged collection time for Prince Harry.

  Even his now-inevitable late arrival couldn’t douse McNab’s high spirits. He’d already called Janice and told her of the success of Clean It! She’d listened in obvious amused silence, then reminded him he therefore owed her big time, which McNab had agreed with.

  ‘And don’t mess Darren around. You’re not the only one who needs him in their life,’ she’d told him.

  ‘What day does he come to you?’ McNab had immediately asked. ‘Don’t want to interfere with your arrangements.’

  ‘You had better not. And it’s a Tuesday.’

  After the discussion of their domestic arrangements, McNab had explained he was headed to the hospital where Harry McArthur was due to be discharged.

  ‘I’ve found him a room,’ McNab had said before Janice could ask. ‘In a safe house.’

  ‘So he has something to tell us?’ She’d sounded interested.

  ‘He has,’ McNab had said. ‘But he’s not ready yet.’

  ‘When will he be?’

  ‘Soon,’ McNab had promised. ‘Any luck locating Malky’s whereabouts?’

  ‘He’s dropped off the face of the earth, apparently.’

  ‘Worried we will find a way of charging him.’

  ‘We could if your man gave us a statement to that effect.’

  McNab had chosen to ignore the obvious dig. ‘What about the knife?’

  ‘The area between his usual spot on Argyle Street and the alley has been thoroughly searched, including the drains. No sign of it. Malky will have got rid of it far from the scene of crime or else hung on to it, for future jobs. Probably had his name carved on the handle like Glasgow villains of old.’

  McNab had brought the fanciful musings of DS Clark to an end by ringing off, keen as he was not to be questioned more closely about where he planned to stash Harry. If all went well and according to plan, Harry would be at Ellie’s a week at most, then social services could step in and they’d be welcome to him.

  Making his way through the already-busy thoroughfare of the giant hospital, McNab entered the lift. Emerging on his requested floor, he headed for Harry’s ward. Shifts had changed in the interim and he was presented with a face on the desk he didn’t recognize.

  Showing his ID, he introduced himself and explained he was here to collect Harry McArthur. The nurse gave his ID a cursory glance then went on her computer for what felt like five minutes.

  ‘Mr McArthur’s downstairs in the discharge lounge.’

  ‘The arrangement was that I pick him up from the ward at nine o’clock,’ McNab said.

  The nurse made a point of checking her watch, knowing it was well past that now. ‘His bed was required first thing, so we moved him to the discharge lounge. You can pick him up from there.’

  ‘Is there an officer with him?’

  The nurse shot him a look of confusion. ‘I thought you were the officer.’

  ‘The other uniformed officer who has been sitting outside his room since he was admitted.’

  Her confusion only grew bigger at McNab’s declaration.

  ‘I’ve been off for three days. I don’t know about the other officer.’

  McNab realized he wasn’t going to get the full story here, but he might get it from Harry.

  ‘Where’s the discharge lounge?’

  ‘It’s down near the exit and the taxi stance.’ She gave him directions. ‘According to his notes, Mr McArthur will need bed rest for at least another week. He has details of how to look after the wound with his discharge sheet. He’ll be required to come back in two weeks’ time.’ A sudden thought crossed her mind. ‘Is he going to jail?’

  McNab didn’t bother with an answer.

  Re-entering the lift, he found himself muttering his annoyance, much to the consternation of the other occupants.

  ‘Are you all right, mate?’ a man asked him.

  ‘I’m a policeman,’ was McNab’s response, as though that explained everything.

  Despite the nurse’s instructions, or more likely because he hadn’t listened to them properly, McNab ended up in the wrong place more than once before he finally discovered the designated discharge lounge.

  Opening the door, he found himself in a spacious room containing comfortable chairs with coffee, tea and biscuits on offer. There were at least eight people in there, some behind newspapers. McNab scanned them all before facing up to the fact that none of them was Harry.

  Glancing round in search of whoever was in charge, he spotted a couple of notices which indicated that no one except discharge patients should be making use of this room and its facilities.

  Shouting ‘Nurse!’ in his loudest voice eventually resulted in a head popping round a door at
the rear of the room. The male nurse gave him an instruction to keep his voice down, followed by the patently cross words, ‘Please, sir, there are recovering patients in here.’

  ‘Not the one I’m looking for. Harry McArthur.’ McNab showed his ID again. ‘I was told he was here.’

  The man emerged and went to a book which lay open on a counter.

  ‘If he was here, he’ll have signed the book,’ he said with certainty. ‘Look –’ he pointed with a flourish – ‘H. McArthur. Signed in 9.00. Collected 9.30.’

  ‘Collected?’ McNab said, a niggling worry becoming larger by the second. ‘Who by?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Who collected him?’ McNab said, his voice staccato now.

  The nurse looked bewildered. ‘His emergency contact, I assume. You have to say who your emergency contact is and give their number when you’re admitted.’ Keen to help, he pointed at the entry again. ‘He’s written a number here. Could that be his emergency contact?’

  McNab stared at the eight-digit number. It didn’t look like a telephone number to him. Mobile numbers were eleven digits, as were landlines with their city codes. He made a note of the number anyway.

  ‘Who was on duty here when he was collected?’

  ‘It wasn’t me. I’ve just come on.’

  ‘Well who then?’ McNab said, adding, ‘This is a police matter.’

  ‘I’ll find out,’ he said and promptly headed into the back room. Seconds later he emerged with a female about McNab’s age, who looked more composed than her male counterpart.

  ‘I was out front when Mr McArthur was picked up. A car arrived at the pick-up point outside, as is the usual case. Mr McArthur saw it through the window and said it was his ride. He signed the book, thanked us and left.’

  ‘Did you see who was driving the car?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Can you describe the car?’

  She looked askance at him. ‘It’s a constant stream of folk getting picked up from the patients’ lounge. If he’d been agitated I would have questioned him, but he wasn’t.’